My shitty poetry diary

You'll be the last to know

You'll always be the last to know.

To know if I'm hurting, if i'm bleeding, if i can't sleep because everything is too loud in a darkened, silenced room.

And it will never be personal.

It will always just be me.

I'd rather lay in the muck of the rotten meadows and try to breath in shallow air, than fight my way out and into your arms.

Although I crave your touch and warmth more than anything.

I'll let the echoes of the well I fell into carry my sadness, but never my calls for your name.

And i'll never find my logic for this self torture I dance in.

You'll stare into my soul behind my pupils and ask if I'm okay,

I'll answer with a simple nod, because words can give in too easily.

As do the salty tears that tumble down my cold cheeks on a harsh winters day.

I'll turn my head away and wipe them quickly.

I won't be a sliver of vulnerable, even with those that light a flame in my chest.

Because I will hold that vulnerability against my own being.

Or maybe it's that I worry you won't know how to deal with me.

You'll put a soft hand on my shoulder and repeat solemn swears of how this is just a rough patch, because you have no knowledge of how to deal with my dilemma of a psychology.

Or you'll call me crazy, despite my feeling of logic behind my eyes.

So instead, I'll board up a wall around the steaks of my heart and fragile skin.

So no one can enter nor leave damage.